


sweeter far than honey

by Zingiber



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale wears all sorts of ridiculous outfits, Body Positivity, Comedy, Fluff and Smut, It's ridiculous and has no rules, M/M, Pining, Romance, This Fic is Kinda a Camel, crowley is thirsty af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: It was as if Crowley had not suffered enough.  As if the liquid fall of toga in that squalid little tavern in Ancient Greece wasn’t enough.  As if the silvery-blue doublet and confectionary travesty of a ruff in 1601 hadn’t been enough.  As if those ridiculous, satiny pink shoes and the bloody chains in the Bastille hadn’t been enough.No, apparently none of that had been enough.  Apparently, some sick, vindictive fucker – whether it be from Above, Below, or the chaotic whims of Fate itself – was having a jolly good time making Crowley suffer by parading Aziraphale around in all sorts of ridiculous attire.  Ridiculous attire specifically designed to drive Crowley mad.Or:  five times Crowley was preoccupied with Aziraphale's body, and one time he could act on it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 316





	1. Noticing

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a stolen and modified line from Psalm 19. Yes, I'm probably going to Hell.

_Eden, Sometime Shortly After The Beginning_

Crawly had seen the angel before, of course – seen him from a safe distance. Slinking about the Garden, lurking amid the brambles, he seen the angel pass by on his daily perimeter around the wall, flaming sword in hand. Crawly had quite literally turned tail and slithered up the nearest tree, pretending to sun his scales as the angel passed by. 

_Be wary of Her servants,_ Lower Management had warned him – _Lower_ because, in Hell, going _Up_ was rather against the point. _The angels. Mighty warriors, they are. Cherubim. Flay the scales off your bones as soon as look at you. Leave nothing but a smudge of stinking ash behind._

They’d laughed after that, oily snickering at Crawly’s expense. He’d laughed along too, desperate to save face, desperate to do a good job. A bad job. To do a bad job well. 

Now, feeling the simmering heat of the flaming sword from several yards off – the angel’s starched white mantle catching the sunlight, gleaming like the white blaze of a star – Crawly wished he hadn’t been so bloody ambitious. He could have been as lazy and incurious as the other demons. Probably could’ve been a shoe shiner Downstairs, so long as he didn’t mind a kick to the face now and then. 

It was true that everyone in Hell was out to get you, but at least demons liked to make their torments _last._ You had a reasonable chance of getting out of a scrape that way. Angels just smote the living daylights out of you, no questions asked.

Crawly had seen the angel from afar, and he’d been perfectly fine to leave it that way. So, after all the business with the humans and the apple was over, he was more than a little shocked to find himself slithering up the wall for a closer look.

As the desert sun baked down upon the wall, shining the surrounding sand to boiling bronze, Crawly willed himself into a man-shaped form. And then he gave into what was evidently a fit of madness and began talking to the angel.

He looked, Crawly realized, much less intimidating up close. Far from the shining perfection of Heaven’s army, this angel seemed… approachable. As if Crawly could reach across the scant space between them and brush the pads of his newly-knitted fingers across that gleaming robe. As if he had nothing to fear. Still trading quips, Crawly looked out across the desert dunes. The humans stood facing down a snarling lion. Adam brought down the flaming sword, ending the beast’s life with a wet noise.

As storm clouds gathered and rain began to darken the wall stones, Crawly shuffled closer, compelled by the same madness that bade him climb the wall. The angel lifted a wing to shield him from the drizzling rain. 

“You’re not quite what I expected,” Crawly said.

The angel furrowed his brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno.” Crawly shifted on his feet, flicking a glance at the angel. Before, he had thought him blazing but remote, like the cold fire of a star. Now, he couldn’t help but notice how soft the angel looked. White-blonde hair curled around his ears and over his nape, the skin there damp. He wondered if that was stray raindrops or something else – something as base and _human_ as sweat. 

“Well,” the angel said, dipping his head to stare at the wall stones. A roll of flesh gathered under his chin. “I could say the same for you, demon.”

“Crawly,” Crawly reminded. 

“Ah, yes. Forgive me.” The angel’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lip. “I am called Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crawly repeated. The name curled like smoke in his mouth.


	2. Admiring

_Ancient Egypt_

Hundreds of years later, slinking through the dusty streets of Pi-Ramesses, Crawly flicked out his tongue to scent the air. He had been tracking the apple-fresh smell of angel for the past two days, having picked it up the moment he set foot in the city. It was an elusive trail, darting hither and thither around every dark, dank nook of the slave ghetto. But Crawly had cornered it at last, and it was with a mixed sense of wariness and elation that he set his palm to the wooden plank that served as a door. Holy power hummed through the splinters, threatening to singe his skin. The scent of apples was everywhere, the tang of juice ripe on his tongue. 

He pushed the door open with a faint _creak._ As he stepped inside, a distracted voice floated through the still air. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Bright halos seared across Crawly’s field of vision as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The first thing he noticed was not the tidy but Spartan hut, not the middle-aged man seated on a stool with his arm extended. It was not the stinging, herbal stink of the poultice Aziraphale was deliberately smearing over the ragged wound on the man’s arm, nor was it the faint but unmistakable glow of holy power applied alongside the medicine. It was the spread of Aziraphale’s thighs, stretching the linen of his tunic snug as he leaned forward to examine the wound. The hem ended just above his knees, leaving his calves and feet bare. Crawly’s mouth went dry.

“That looks like it’s coming along just swimmingly,” Aziraphale told the man, tying on a new wrapping with deft ease. “I daresay it will barely be more than a scratch in a day or two.”

Crawly shrank into a shadowed corner as the human thanked Aziraphale profusely, calling him _‘healer’_ and bowing. Aziraphale waved off the praise with a smile and bade him farewell, not unkindly. Once the human was gone, the plank door closed behind him, Crawly stepped forward. “Thought I recognized your handiwork.”

Aziraphale wiped his palms against his tunic. The motion accentuated the shape of his thighs beneath the linen, the yield of plump flesh. “Well, I do what I can. The Almighty has decreed that something important is to happen in Pi-Ramesses, and I must guard the Hebrews until it does. I believe She is finally going to deliver them from…”

Aziraphale continued, whisked up in a vein of conversation Crawly had no intention of following. His attention was pinned to the angel’s bare feet, the smudges of dust creased into the cracked soles as he bustled about. His ankles sloped into generous calves, muscles shifting and bunching with each step. Further up, the softness of his stomach smoothed out the linen save for a single crease. The realization that Aziraphale had something so human and unnecessary as a _belly button_ made Crawly’s head spin. 

“…Crawly? Crawly, are you paying any attention at all?”

“Ngk,” said Crawly. It was a sound he had never made before, and it slipped out of him unbidden. “Uh. Nah.”

Aziraphale sniffed in disdain. “You know, I don’t mind you coming around to make mischief, but the least you could do is _pretend_ to listen to me. It’s only common courtesy.”

“M’a demon,” Crawly managed. “Courtesy’s not really my scene.”

“Well, I suppose that means you wouldn’t deign to have a drink with me.”

“That,” Crawly said, “has got nothing to do with courtesy.”

Aziraphale flicked a grin over his shoulder as he moved to the box at one corner of the room. He picked up a jug and two cups, gesturing with a glance for Crowley to sit at the low stool. “Make yourself comfortable. Now, I know we’re both accustomed to wine, but the common folk here have this innovative new drink called _beer…”_

Crawly took the proffered cup, swirling the malty contents with a skeptical look. As Aziraphale nattered on about germinating and straining and alcohol percentage, Crawly found his attention drawn from the beer to the angel’s hands. One held the cup while the other waved animatedly. His wrists were delicate, at odds with his plump arms, the dimples in the crooks of his elbows. When Crawly had last seen him at the Ark, Aziraphale’s skin had been milk-pale, but now – now, it was clear he had been hard at work under the desert sun. A tan darkened his complexion, making his blonde curls stand out all the more. 

“You’ve really taken to this,” Crawly mused. “These humans, I mean.” He took a sip, mouth twisting. “This is… interesting.”

“The humans are wonderful,” Aziraphale said. “I can see why the Almighty is so taken with them.”

 _Yes,_ Crawly thought, _that must be why She drowned the first lot of them._ But he didn’t want to begin that fight just now, not when they were sitting together, sipping beer while Crawly stole glances at Aziraphale’s state of dress. Or undress, as it were. 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale said, sounding a trifle irritated, “whatever is the matter with you?”

“What?” Crawly’s voice tripped up an octave with the word. Clearing his throat, he added, “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Why would you—”

“Oh, don’t bother fibbing,” Aziraphale sighed. “You’ve been very twitchy lately. Out with it, now. I’ve had quite a long day and I’m in no mood to—”

“Healer!”

The two whirled toward the doorway, where a scrawny child stood. “Healer,” he gasped, “please help—it’s my mother…”

Aziraphale wasted no time. Setting aside his cup, he stood and hurried after the boy, who had already vanished from the doorway and was sprinting down the street. Crawly rushed after them, already struggling to keep up. A commotion rose around them as they neared a corner, a rising din of sorrow. Aziraphale vanished around the corner and, seconds later, Crawly followed suit. His sandaled heels scraped up dirt as he lurched to a halt. 

A man crouched in the street, pulling helplessly at the motionless form of a cart. One wheel listed at an unnatural angle, attesting to a broken axel. Beneath the cart, a woman lay motionless. Her arms were stretched out, hands limp in the dirt.

“Sh-she pushed me out of the way,” the boy told Aziraphale between choked, gulping breaths. “She…”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder at Crawly. “Crawly, if you would please divert the humans? There’s a good chap.”

No sooner had he spoken than Crawly realized his fingers were smarting from the _snap,_ the scorch and crackle of infernal power. He blinked, startled by his own complicity, as blank incomprehension glazed over the expression of every human within sight. Time slowed to a honeyed drizzle, then halted.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said briskly. Crawly scarcely had a moment to reply before the angel was rolling up the sleeves of his tunic, exposing tanned forearms. Crawly’s words stuck like a spine of bone in his throat. His footing on coherency grew suddenly precarious.

“Suppose there’s nothing to be done about it,” Aziraphale said, half to himself. He bent low and slotted his hands under the wagon and if Crawly _hadn’t_ been suddenly confronted with the plush reality of the angel’s arse, he might have had the presence of mind to note the miracle woven into the worm-eaten planks. With a grunt, Aziraphale stood, lifting away the entire cart in a single motion. The linen tunic truly was a paltry thing, thin and threadbare, doing little to conceal the shift of muscle as he summoned inhuman strength, channeled it through a human body. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his mouth set in a hard line. Crawly watched, mesmerized, as Aziraphale set aside the cart – broken axel miraculously mended – and bent to attend to the injured woman. 

“She’s still breathing,” Aziraphale reported, “but only just. Let’s sort you out, dear lady…”

He pressed his palm to her brow, crooning softly as he snapped the fingers of his other hand. The healing glow branded burning halos on the backs of Crawly’s eyes, but he didn’t care about that. All he could think of was the crease of Aziraphale’s belly button, the spread of his thighs. His perfect, angelic, bare feet smudged with dirt. 


	3. Coveting

_London, 1852_

It was as if Crowley had not suffered enough. As if the liquid fall of toga in that squalid little tavern in Ancient Greece wasn’t enough. As if the silvery-blue doublet and confectionary travesty of a ruff in 1601 hadn’t been enough. As if those ridiculous, satiny pink shoes and the bloody _chains_ in the Bastille hadn’t been enough. 

No, apparently none of that had been enough. Apparently, some sick, vindictive fucker – whether it be from Above, Below, or the chaotic whims of Fate itself – was having a jolly good time making Crowley suffer by parading Aziraphale around in all sorts of ridiculous attire. Ridiculous attire specifically designed to drive Crowley mad.

Crowley sucked in a breath and ordered himself to get a grip. He would get precious little done with his current assignment if all he could do was gape as Aziraphale swanned around the glittering grandeur of London’s upper crust.

Aziraphale in _pantaloons._

Broadly speaking, pantaloons were one of humankind’s fashion choices Crowley found most suspect. Right behind the codpiece for sheer absurdity. He’d been relieved when they went out of fashion decades ago, but trust Aziraphale to exhume a trend long after it had begun moldering in its grave. Cupping the belly, the fabric reached down to the wearer’s ankles, molding lewdly to every fold of muscle and flesh along the way. Some men put padding in their pantaloons if they had need of it.

Aziraphale had no need of it.

Crowley’s fingers flexed around the stem of his glass. This was beyond ridiculous. He could practically hear all the legions of Heaven and Hell laughing at him. As Aziraphale lingered on the other side of the ballroom, steeped in gossip with some ribbon-choked courtier, Crowley stared and stared and stared. The angel’s pantaloons were colored beige, complementing the cornflower-blue tail coat and white muslin shirt he wore. The ruffled shirt collar evoked the blatantly-obvious image of a wing. He looked, in every respect, like a proper dandy.

Crowley was no fool. He was a nervous wreck of a duck, paddling along at frantic speeds while he tried to play cool, but he had enough self-awareness to know lust and obsession when it bludgeoned him across the skull. Ever since that day in Egypt – hell, ever since the Garden – he had been preoccupied with Aziraphale’s body. The way it changed, as if the very atoms of his being were rearranging to better fit the world around him. Aziraphale had settled into the world like a well-loved armchair, and the softness of his body reflected his comfort in it. 

Across the room, Aziraphale’s nose crinkled and he tossed back his head with a brazen laugh. The creamy expanse of his throat was laid bare to Crowley’s greedy stare, and he felt the glass stem creak beneath his fingers. It wasn’t simply the comfort Aziraphale exuded that so enticed him. That much was plain. 

Crowley had long ago become adept at burying anything that scraped deeper than the plain skin of _want_. He was a demon – lust was familiar. Obsession was familiar. Those were the dark, covetous threads at which his kind were so skilled at pulling. Anything more threatened to unravel him, and Crowley would be damned—er, redeemed – if he let himself come undone by something as soppy and pathetic as _sentiment._

“Crowley!”

An involuntary noise of surprise gurgled out of Crowley as he came back to himself to find Aziraphale standing before him, head cocked and eyes inquisitive. The glass in his hand had been refilled several times, if the rosy hue of his cheeks was anything to go by.

 _Wonder if his arse cheeks would blush so prettily,_ an insidious corner of his mind whispered. Crowley, who had taken the worst possible moment to sip his wine, choked on it.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, concerned, “steady, now.” He clapped Crowley’s back as the demon hacked. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Crowley wheezed. He was so utterly fucked.

Aziraphale compressed his lips, but he didn’t argue. He turned to survey the opulent crowd. “Isn’t this delightful? I haven’t been to a soiree like this in some time. The _hors d'oeuvres_ are simply divine…”

“Isn’t that sacrilege?”

Aziraphale chuckled and swatted his shoulder. Did his hand linger, or was that just Crowley’s imagination? “Oh, stop, old serpent.”

“What were you blathering on about, anyway? With all your fine new friends?” Crowley bit off the words, hoping he hadn’t sounded as bitter as he felt. 

If Aziraphale noticed, he gave no indication of it. Small mercies. “Well, we were chatting about Earl Russell. He’s to retire, if the gossip is anything to go by.”

“Good riddance,” Crowley muttered, taking another cautious sip. No telling when his lecherous thoughts would try to discorpotate him. 

Aziraphale gave him a stern look, but there was no sincerity in it. “Crowley…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Crowley said. “Anyway.” He tossed back the rest of his wine, and perhaps the liquid courage was metabolizing into the genuine article or perhaps his subconscious really _was_ out to discorpotate him, because the next words out of his mouth were, “You look—”

He sucked back the words and willed his face to neutrality. Aziraphale studied him, eyebrows raised. After a moment of tense silence, Crowley waved an eloquent hand at the angel’s attire. “Ngh.”

“How articulate,” Aziraphale deadpanned. He sighed. “Listen, Crowley—”

“Mr. Fell!”

It was a young lady, drifting across the room with two dandies in tow. Her dress billowed around her like gossamer cloud and her red hair hung in delicate ringlets around her face. She extended a gloved hand to Aziraphale, who took it with a polite smile.

“I was hoping you might dance with me,” she said, looking at him through her lashes. “If that isn’t too forward.”

Crowley recognized the obvious pantomime of feminine modestly. He had the sudden and powerful urge to show the lady his fangs, but he restrained it. Only just. 

“It would be an honor.” Aziraphale took the proffered glove. As he led the young lady out among the other dancers, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. “An informative chat as always, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath and snapped his fingers to refill his glass. Taking a step back, he shrouded himself in obscurity and downed the second glass with a swallow that required a serpentine feat of jaw-unhinging. Through the crowd, he could see Aziraphale gliding around the dance floor with the young lady on his arm. Another snap, another glass of wine burning down his throat. He willed his body to process the alcohol faster, for the world to go blurry and soft and simple. 

“That’s him, then?”

Crowley lowered his glass. The two dandies stood close, heads bent together as they whispered furtively. 

“It is,” said the other, a sly smile curving his mouth. “The notorious Mr. Fell.”

“From the molly house? What did you call it… the Grey Swan?”

Crowley inhaled his next mouthful of wine and spluttered explosively. He beat his chest with a fist, eyes watering as he struggled to focus on the two young dandies. _Molly house?_

“Indeed,” said the first. “Quite a lovely establishment, if you ever feel inclined to join me…”

“You know that isn’t possible. Now, tell me about Mr. Fell’s exploits.”

The first dandy answered with a knowing smirk. Fury kindled in the pit of Crowley’s belly, sudden and white-hot – that some paltry, mayfly-lived human would have so much as an _inkling_ about Aziraphale’s… predilections.

Crowley polished off his glass and refilled it with a thought. Fuck, even toeing toward the concept of Aziraphale having predilections made his head spin. 

“Mr. Fell is terribly popular with the lads at the Grey Swan,” said the first dandy. “Home with a new one every night, or so the rumors say.”

“Every night!” A disbelieving scoff. “Surely you jest.”

He shrugged. “Who can say? Aside from half the clientele of the Grey Swan, of course.”

As the pair snickered, Crowley swallowed another gulp of wine. His commitment to drinking himself blind was going swimmingly if the unmoored smear of lamplight was anything to go by. But he couldn’t scrub the thought from his mind: Aziraphale, prim, fussy, perfect, _bastard_ Aziraphale attending a molly house. Did he drink and smoke with the human men, casting an appraising eye over their youth and beauty? Did he kiss them, touch them with his soft, delicate fingers? Did he take them to bed?

Crowley was concealed from human eyes, but his own focus was fixed completely on Aziraphale. As the angel danced – a little stiff, clearly unsuited to it, but radiant with enthusiasm – Crowley could not tear his gaze away from his legs. Those idiotic pantaloons were mocking him, concealing nothing from the imagination. Strong calves tapered into the dips of his knees before filling out into generous thighs. The beige silk clung to every muscle and curve, a paint as thin as the veneer of decency nobody sought to breach. 

Sinful, insidious thoughts slipped into the torrent of alcohol hitting his bloodstream. If Aziraphale was wearing clothes dated at least twenty years past, he would have braces to hold up the pantaloons. Crowley imagined sliding his hands under Aziraphale’s waistcoat, feeling the firm straps scrape the backs of his hands as he fondled the angel’s chest. He imagined feeling through the fabric, finding the pert bud of a nipple, pinching it as Aziraphale squirmed and moaned. He imagined trailing a hand down to Aziraphale’s waist and slipping each button free until the front flap came undone. He could get on his knees, suck Aziraphale down without having to remove a single article of clothing. Or he could miracle loose the ties at the back, give his hand room to slip inside. Would Aziraphale shiver, mouth going slack against his as Crowley opened him up? Would those strong, plush thighs tremble as he struggled to keep his footing?

A smattering of applause crashed through Crowley’s musings. The dance had concluded and people were leading their partners back into the crowd to mingle. Aziraphale was still some distance away, but getting closer with every second. And Crowley was as stiff as a pike in the confines of his drawers. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, tossing back the rest of his wine. No point in wasting it, not when he’d dug his grave this deep. Face flaming, he set the glass aside and searched frantically for an exit. Aziraphale was drawing closer, clearly intent on him. Sweat beaded his brow from the exertion of the dance. Crowley imagined smoothing back those downy-white curls, kissing his brow and tasting salt. “Fuckfuck _fuck.”_

A doorway loomed into sight. _Perfect._ Crowley snapped his fingers with as much subtlety as he could muster and a passing gaggle of ladies shrieked as they stumbled, knocking over one another and dousing their fine dresses with wine. Amid the hubbub, Crowley fled. 

The doorway led into a dark, narrow corridor – meant for servants, no doubt. Crowley cared nothing for that. He hobbled into a shadowed alcove, hampered by his unflagging erection, and slammed his back to the nearest vertical surface he could find. A hiss escaped him as he cupped a hand over the stiff jut of his prick, sparks of pleasure pinwheeling through his veins. He had thought he mapped all the human oddities of his corporation long ago, but this was new terrain. This was the gut-clenching swoop of steep cliffs, the grip of unseen riptides pulling him under. Crowley shoved his hand down his trousers, ties be damned, and fucked the uncanny slick of his fist with desperate, fast thrusts. Little grunts and whimpers slipped from him on panting breaths and his mind was filled with Aziraphale, Aziraphale’s pink lips parting to moan as Crowley fucked him, Aziraphale’s strong legs locked around his waist, Aziraphale gasping _yes, yes, darling, faster, harder_ and Crowley came with a muffled curse, spilling over his fingers and soiling the inside of his trousers. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. He pulled his hand free and studied the come on his fingers in a daze. Sticky, wet. 

“Crowley?”

The sound of Aziraphale’s voice very nearly startled Crowley into a cardiac event, which would have been quite the feat, given his heart had no biological need to beat. He sucked in a sharp breath and scrambled for the shreds of his composure. His attempt to miracle the mess away failed because his fingers were slippery and he bungled the snap; a choked, hysterical laugh burst out of him. The sound was deafening in the quite confines of the alcove. He froze.

“Crowley, is that you?” Aziraphale’s voice was closer. Had he heard the illicit little noises Crowley made? Could he smell the come growing tacky on his fingers?

Footsteps approaching the alcove. Heart hammering, Crowley vanished the mess with a blink and hastened to smooth his rumpled clothing. 

“There you are,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked up. Aziraphale filled the opening of the alcove, limned by pale yellow light from the ballroom. Distantly, the tinkling merriment of the party carried on, its attendants oblivious. 

After a long, strained moment, Aziraphale finally asked, “Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?” Thank fuck, his voice sounded passably calm.

“Why are you lurking about in the dark?”

“No reason,” said Crowley. He slithered past the angel, taking great care not to touch. “Best be off. Got loads of mischief to make.”

A long beat of silence. Aziraphale frowned. “I’m sure you do,” he said at last, and left Crowley to it. 

Crowley stumbled back into the dizzying grandeur of the ballroom. His legs still trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. _Fuck,_ that had been wrong in so many ways. He snatched up an unoccupied glass of wine from a nearby tabletop and tipped it back for a swallow. Dread, sour on his tongue.

It was fine. It was fine. It would be _fine._ He was a demon; lust was part of the job description. Lust for an angel was even better—worse—more _favorable,_ because it meant he had the depravity to fathom dirtying those downy-white feathers, tarnishing that pristine halo. It was fine.

It wasn’t a problem.


	4. Tending

_The Day After Armageddon_

It was a problem.

It had been a problem for many years, now; Crowley could admit that much to himself.

After the world had almost ended in fire and raining fish, denying it seemed outright willful. As they settled into their seats on the bus back to London, Aziraphale slipped his hand over Crowley’s, as easy as anything, and the reality of his predicament struck him with the boneless _splat_ of a cephalopod mollusk to the cranium. 

He did not merely _want_ Aziraphale. He’d known that for ages – centuries, probably even millennia, though he hadn’t had the language for it, then. Lust was the patina on what he felt for the angel. Lovely ornamentation, a testament to the time of their relationship, but there was something stronger beneath it. Crowley had understood that for a long time, but he had never thought Aziraphale could love him _back._

Or, rather, that Aziraphale would act on it. He’d been hamstrung by Heaven’s rules for over six-thousand years; it had seemed impossible that he would ever defy them. But here he was, sitting on the scabbed upholstery of a bus seat, thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the back of Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale had gone against Heaven and the world had not ended. They had survived, and they were here, now, holding hands on a bus.

An instant of bravery seized Crowley and he turned his hand over, lacing their fingers tightly together. Aziraphale was staring intently out the window, but Crowley saw his reflection smile in the grubby glass.

Another realization struck Crowley: that they were going back to his flat. That he loved Aziraphale, there was a possibility Aziraphale loved him back, and they were _going back to his flat._ That Aziraphale would occupy his space, sit on his uncomfortable sofa, shine his warm glow on the cold, sterile walls. Aziraphale inhabited places in a way Crowley never had – he truly lived in them, made himself comfortable. It was how he had settled so effortlessly into the world, how he had made it his home. There was a frightening intimacy in that fact, more vulnerable than the simple fact of wanting Aziraphale. It was making a home, building a future.

“Here we are,” Crowley said, lamely, as he gestured Aziraphale into the flat. Aziraphale walked through the front hall, surveying everything with a quiet sense of detachment. He placed a palm to the rotating stone wall to the throne room, tossing Crowley a bemused look, and pushed.

Crowley only remembered then, and there was no time—Aziraphale gasped, softly, and grew utterly still. Crowley rushed to his side, heart in his throat. “Angel—”

Aziraphale held out a hand to halt him. “Don’t,” he said, voice like iron. He snapped the fingers of his other hand and the congealed, stinking puddle that had once been Ligur vanished. When the floor was once again pristine, he whirled around. The intensity in his stare sent a shiver down Crowley’s nape. 

“They would have destroyed you,” Aziraphale said. It was not a question.

“Eeyeah,” Crowley said. There seemed no point in sugarcoating it. 

Fury darkened Aziraphale’s face. “I won’t let them,” he said. He turned toward Crowley and gripped his shoulders, the softness of his hands belied by their fierce strength. “You know that, don’t you? I won’t.”

“I.” Crowley’s ribs were constricting, squeezing around the listless organ meant to pump his blood. He dropped his gaze to the floor and mumbled, “Heaven would’ve done the same to you.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Aziraphale said flatly. “And we aren’t going to let them.” His hands fell away from Crowley’s shoulders and he stepped into the throne room. Crowley, trying to ignore the loss of his touch, followed. The angel stepped around the desk and took a seat in the throne, and _fuck_ if that wasn’t going to be a recurring image in Crowley’s fantasies from now until the end of time. Propping his elbows on the table and leaning forward, Aziraphale steepled his fingers to his lips.

“I have a plan,” he said at last. “We’re going to have to work together.”

Crowley swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Right. Ssso. Business as usual, then.”

Aziraphale smirked. Someone help him, Crowley loved the bastard. “Indeed. Business as usual.”

-

They planned long into the night. When they were done – had done as much as they could – there still remained a few hours before dawn. Crowley was weary down to the marrow of his bones. He had evaded Hell, lost his best friend, regained him in a haze of alcohol-smeared joy, driven the Bentley through the blazing inferno of the M45, kept the burning wreck running all the way to Tadfield, and stood his ground against the devil with nothing but a tire iron, an Antichrist, and Aziraphale by his side. 

He was, to put it mildly, knackered. 

“Gonna lie down for a few hours,” he muttered, taking off his glasses and scrubbing the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Tired.”

“Crowley…”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said. “I’ll be ready for the big show in a couple of hours. Just need… quiet. For a bit.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, eyes darting from Crowley’s face to the floor. He looked on the cusp of arguing, but he only said, “Yes, that… that makes perfect sense. I’ll just, ah, sit down for a moment. Perhaps explore your flat, if I’m feeling bored.”

“Whatever you like,” Crowley said, resolutely ignoring the _come lie down with me_ clawing up his throat. _Come lie down with me. Rest with me. You must be exhausted, right? I love you; you must know that. Lie down with me, let me hold you. I’ve wanted for so long to hold you._

“Don’t mess about with my plants,” he said. “If they catch a whiff of your goodness, they’ll start shedding leaves all over the carpet. Years of work,” he snapped his fingers to illustrate, “gone.”

A fond smile tilted Aziraphale’s lips. “Of course, my dear.”

Later, in the dark of his bed, Crowley searched in vain for sleep. He was exhausted, pared down to the bone, but his worries about tomorrow and the keen awareness of Aziraphale in his flat mingled into a screaming tumult that refused to let him rest. They could, in all likelihood, die tomorrow. No, it was more than that – they could be destroyed. Gone, burnt down to char, dissolved in a vat of Holy Water. Those would be the grand, unimaginative punishments their Head Offices had decided upon, if Crowley was any judge. That same lack of imagination should have comforted him because it put him and Aziraphale one step ahead, but it didn’t. Suppose Heaven and Hell knew what they were up to? Suppose they were laying a trap, prepared to swap Aziraphale and Crowley for their intended destructions as soon as they caught them? 

Crowley rolled onto his side, sliding a hand beneath his pillow. Aziraphale had held his hand on the bus. Aziraphale had taken his hand and hadn’t recoiled when Crowley returned the gesture. Had covered Crowley’s hand with his before he was even seated properly. Crowley had felt the warmth and softness of his skin, the braiding of their fingers together, and their plan _couldn’t fail_ because he had every intention of doing it again. More, even, if he wasn’t completely misreading the angel’s signs. 

Crowley shook his head with a self-deprecating scoff. He had known Aziraphale for six-thousand years. The understanding between them should have been the only thing he could truly rely on, but even after six millennia of knowing each other, Aziraphale still found ways to surprise him. 

“Crowley?”

Every muscle in his body tensed. Crowley’s eyes darted to the door, silhouetted in a golden filigree of light from the corridor. “Crowley, are you awake?”

“Yes,” he said, before he could second-guess himself. “Come in.”

The door creaked softly as Aziraphale pushed it open and crept inside. His voice was soft, so soft it scarcely grew as he came closer. “Were you sleeping?”

“Nah.” Crowley sat up, raking a hand through his hair. “Tried. Didn’t work.”

Aziraphale hesitated at the edge of Crowley’s bed. Crowley could swear the very air grew warmer, stifling, as if Aziraphale was stealing all the oxygen for his needless lungs, exchanging it for his exhaled breath. 

“You can sit,” Crowley said at last. The faintest rasp scuffed his voice.

Aziraphale sat gingerly, hands smoothing across the bedspread. “Thank you. I…” He trailed off, eyes averted, then visibly reclaimed his resolve. “I think I’m _tired,_ Crowley.”

Crowley frowned. He wasn’t surprised, precisely – after everything they’d been through, it made sense to be tired – but he was concerned. Aziraphale had never deigned to sleep. Every time Crowley had suggested it, the angel waved it off as sloth. 

Now, though… now, Aziraphale was sitting a handspan away from Crowley, looking haggard but hopeful. Admitting he was tired and looking as if sleep would do him no end of good. A question hovered on the tip of his tongue, Crowley could see, and to coax it out was a trifling temptation. Like drawing venom from a wound.

“Tired,” he repeated.

“Yes.” Aziraphale shifted, unwittingly mussing the sheets. Crowley liked that – like the idea of the angel’s imprint in his bed. He dragged his attention back to Aziraphale as he spoke. “I’m… my mind feels as if… as if it’s in a fog. I tried sitting quietly, thinking, but all my thoughts drifted away and were lost. I don’t have the energy to go looking for them. The energy for… anything, really.” He looked beseechingly at Crowley. “Does that sound right?”

“Maybe,” Crowley conceded. “It also sounds like you’re…” He drifted off, uncertain, but the alarm flashing through Aziraphale’s eyes – as if he expected some fatal diagnosis – bade him continue. “It sounds like you’re sad. A bit.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s gaze drifted down to his fidgeting hands. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Sometimes ‘tired’ and ‘sad’ go together,” Crowley offered, feeling foolish. “We could try…” The words caught, threatened to choke him. He blurted them out in a rush. “We could sleep. Try sleeping, I mean. Together.” Aziraphale’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Crowley coughed like a cat with a gargantuan furball. “I mean… together here.” He pointed stupidly at the bed. “Just sleep. What else would we…” Where was the sky? He could no longer see it for how deeply he was digging this particular grave. “We could try.”

For a moment, Aziraphale looked nonplussed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. His clothes changed at once, the outdated vest, bowtie, and trousers replaced by an equally-outdated nightgown. The fabric was quilted, making him look impossibly softer, more comfortable. It almost made up for the nauseating beige-and-green tartan pattern – almost. It did _not_ make up for the Ebenezer Scrooge hat perched atop his curls, the end hanging flaccidly beside his cheek.

Aziraphale quirked a brow at Crowley’s expression. “What?”

“It’s just.” Crowley bit back a snort. “You look ridiculous.”

“Cheek,” Aziraphale muttered, rolling his eyes Heavenward. The mattress dipped as he settled down beside Crowley, curled in so they faced each other like a pair of parentheses. The sudden nearness of him crowded Crowley’s senses. The sight of the delicate flush staining his cheeks, the dry-paper-and-Bergamot scent of his skin. He was so close. Crowley could reach out and touch his cheek, cup his jaw, lean in and let their breath mingle on a lingering kiss. 

“I’m not sure what to do,” Aziraphale said, looking chagrined. 

“Close your eyes,” Crowley instructed. “And… well, you know that fog you mentioned? Stop thinking and… I dunno. Let it drift over you.” 

A dubious furrow formed between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, but he didn’t argue. He closed his eyes with a focused exhale, holding himself stiffly in place. Crowley couldn’t help it; he snickered. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open to glower at him. “What?” he asked testily. 

“Are you comfortable?” Crowley asked.

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale replied instantly, and Crowley knew his pride was answering for him. He gave the angel a flat look. Aziraphale pursed his lips and added, “…not.”

“Well, sort that first. You’ll be miserable if you wake up stiff as a board because you couldn’t be bothered to make yourself comfortable.”

Huffing, Aziraphale squirmed around, further mussing the sheets as he risked tumbling off the bed altogether. Crowley shifted back to allow him more space, but after a few minutes of silent, fruitless tossing and turning, Aziraphale heaved a sigh of defeat. “I can’t. Nothing feels right.”

Crowley had struggled with the same difficulties in his first foray with sleep – the battle to convince his body to abandon its limitless horizons and embrace an unnecessary weakness. Angels and demons needn’t grow weary, not with corporations impervious to human flaws. Like convincing a land-dwelling creature to try breathing underwater, sleep had gone against his nature. The outcome was worth it, but it had been a trial.

He reached out, unthinking, and placed one hand atop Aziraphale’s. “S’not so hard,” he said. “Come on, now, try again. Eyes closed.”

Aziraphale was motionless for the space of a breath, eyes fixed on Crowley’s hand. Then, deliberately, he turned his hand over and interlaced their fingers. Crowley feared his palms would get clammy, his racing pulse would beat through his skin and bely what little composure he could muster. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “This is better.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “Eeeyeah.”

“Don’t move, my dear,” the angel mumbled, settling on his side. He nosed against the pillow – the pillow Crowley’s own head had been resting on, minutes ago. The ridiculous hat skewed off at an angle as his downy curls fanned across slate-colored silk. In all Crowley’s clandestine fantasies, Aziraphale in his bed was a flushed, gasping, needful creature, begging for Crowley’s hands, his mouth. That was all good – that was fucking _divine,_ frankly – but this reality was a few steps removed. Now, Crowley could imagine Aziraphale waking long after the sun had risen. He could see the pillow marks creasing his cheek, smell the staleness of his morning breath. What would his hair look like after a proper night’s rest? Would the curls be in complete disarray, standing every which way, or would they be matted by that ridiculous hat? 

Crowley’s fingers itched to reach out and twine through the angel’s hair. See if it felt as silken as it looked, how Aziraphale’s expression would change at the slightest tug. Did he have a sensitive scalp? 

“This is better,” Aziraphale mumbled. “This is…”

Crowley leaned on him, just a little – an infernal nudge, guiding his way into slumber. The faintest smile quirked Aziraphale’s lips, then vanished as his face smoothed into calm repose. He was asleep. 

-

Crowley woke a few hours later to find the shadows of night banished by a pale wash of morning sunlight peeping through the curtains. He was laying on his side, face half-mashed into his pillow. His hand was still entwined with Aziraphale’s, and his eyes tracked up the angel’s palm, past the delicate blue tracery of his wrist to climb the sleeve of his nightgown. Aziraphale was beautiful asleep, his face wiped clean of all the nervous tension he had borne for so many years. The hat had slipped off, leaving his curls a tangled riot. Crowley clenched his fingers, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth them back into place. 

Or mess them up some more. He was really on the fence with that one.

Aziraphale crinkled his brow and mumbled, “Just a few more… few more minutes, dear…”

Crowley eased his grip, realizing too late that he had woken the angel. “We’ve got time,” he said quietly. Not much, really, but he didn’t care for that. Heaven and Hell could wait.

Aziraphale opened his eyes, still muzzy with sleep. He smiled, and Crowley’s heart gave a disconcerting kick at the sight. The angel hummed, burrowed further into his pillow, and gave a jaw-creaking yawn. “Goodness. That was lovely.”

Crowley swallowed past the sentiment clogging his throat like phlegm. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale sighed, all libertine contentment, and bloody hell if that sound wouldn’t be filed away to garnish Crowley’s fantasies for eternity. Aziraphale extricated his hand from Crowley’s and rolled onto his back to stretch his arms, spine bowing with the movement. “Terribly comfortable. I must make a point to try it more often.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well, you definitely _look_ comfortable.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“All of… this,” Crowley said, gesturing to the quilted nightgown. “Practically a pillow yourself, aren’t you.”

Aziraphale’s expression stiffened for the briefest moment. Crowley might not have noticed it, had he not known the angel for so many years – but it was there, undeniable, and gone before he could classify it. 

Aziraphale sat up, suddenly all briskness, his smile stiff. “Well, then. I suppose you should get to the shop. What do you say? St. James, eleven o’clock?”

Crowley hastily sat up as Aziraphale climbed off the bed, switching the quilted nightgown for his usual clothes with a snap of his fingers. Before Crowley could make a sound, Aziraphale was striding into the kitchen, saying, “Do you have any nibbles about? I’m absolutely famished.”

Crowley stared after him, baffled. He knew he’d done something wrong, set a foot awry, but he couldn’t say what. All he knew was the niggling sense of disquiet worming its way into his gut, chewing through the giddy joy of a morning spent with Aziraphale in his bed. Consuming it, bit by bit. 


	5. Envying

_Three Months Later_

The man’s lust was a noxious fog, smothering Crowley’s senses and threatening to choke him. 

Crowley swallowed the bitter tang of jealousy and leaned against the pillar behind him, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. Before him, the gallery was abuzz with spectators come to view the exhibit. Newly-discovered works by some crusty old artist of renown; Crowley hadn’t bothered to retain any of Aziraphale’s babblings beyond that. His mind had snagged on the angel’s mention of _Mr. Ashford,_ the sweet smile that brightened his face. 

_He is quite extraordinary for a human,_ Aziraphale had gushed. _Very knowledgeable in his field. You would like him, dear boy._

Crowley doubted that. He doubted it very, very much.

Now, watching Aziraphale swan around the gallery with _Mr. Ashford_ on his elbow, Crowley felt the disgust congealing in his belly. Catering staff drifted about, their plates festooned with bite-sized confections. As one wandered into his orbit, Mr. Ashford reached out, plucked a prosciutto-wrapped pear with bleu cheese off a plate, and offered it to Aziraphale. The angel beamed. Crowley’s fingernails bit into his palms as he watched. 

_I like pears,_ Aziraphale had said, once, as they stood in St. James’s Park. 

“Bet you bloody well do,” Crowley muttered. 

As if hearing the remark, Aziraphale turned around and caught sight of him. His expression lit up and he raised an arm, clearly beckoning him over. Against his better judgement, Crowley pushed off the pillar and began sauntering over.

It was maddening, this… rut they had stumbled into. After averting Armageddon, after successfully dissuading their Head Offices… well, Crowley had expected something to happen. He hadn’t known _what,_ per se, but there had certainly been an expectation. More hand-holding, perhaps. More bed-sharing. More _more._

None of that had come to pass. After their celebratory lunch at the Ritz, Aziraphale had bid Crowley goodbye and gone back to his bookshop to _make sure everything is quite in order. I know Adam Young did his best, no doubt, but you can never be sure what the youths of today think would pass muster, mint editions or no._ After the initial, disconcerting lurch of a plan gone awry, Crowley hadn’t minded. Of course he hadn’t. Aziraphale loved his shop, and after all he’d been through, it made perfect sense that he might want to lose himself in it. In a sense of familiarity. Comfort.

Crowley could wait.

Except the waiting had stretched from a day to a week to a month to _three Someone-forsaken months._ Crowley waited, intent on being good and patient and all Aziraphale could ever want in a… boyfriend? Companion? Lover? Human words seemed too thin and frail to encompass a relationship spanning six-thousand years, but if one existed, Crowley was keen on being it. 

His mouth twisted at his own sentiment. He really was well and truly done for.

But, in spite of all his patience, Aziraphale had done nothing. Made no move, offered no hint of interest. It was as if the night of Armageddon’t hadn’t happened. And Crowley could wait longer – months were the merest blink for endless beings like themselves – but he could _not_ simply stand idly by while Aziraphale was wined and dined by the Mr. Ashfords of the world.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said warmly as he drew near. “I’m so glad you came. This is the fellow I was telling you about – Mr. Nathaniel Ashford. Nathaniel, dear boy, why don’t you tell Crowley about…”

As Aziraphale prattled on, Crowley slanted a sideways glance at Mr. Ashford. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, in a forgettable way, but looks meant nothing. What struck Crowley was the stench of unabashed lust radiating off the man. If Crowley was of a mind to tempt, he would scarcely need to lift a finger for this mischief. Mr. Ashford wanted Aziraphale, wanted to unwrap him, reveal his soft flesh to stroke and kiss and savor. The want was a burning coal in Crowley’s stomach, bringing scalding bile to the back of his throat.

“Mr. Crowley.” Mr. Ashford extended a hand, a friendly smile plastered across his face. “So good to meet you. Mr. Fell has been telling me all about—”

“You’ve got something on your shirt,” Crowley said.

Mr. Ashford looked down, where, indeed, a greenish-brown stain blotted his button-up shirt. It smelled as incriminating as it looked, and Mr. Ashford blanched.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry, I’ll just…” 

He shot Aziraphale an apologetic look before his eyes alit on a nearby server. He darted a hand out, snatched up another prosciutto-wrapped pear, and offered it wordlessly to the angel. Aziraphale took the food with an understanding smile, which Mr. Ashford returned before hurrying off to the nearest men’s toilet. The moment he was out of earshot, Aziraphale rounded on Crowley.

“That was mean-spirited,” he snapped.

Crowley threw up his hands. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Aziraphale huffed, but Crowley could already see the ire burning out of him. “He really _is_ a perfectly nice fellow. If you were going to behave like a demon, you could have at least picked a target who deserved it.”

“All humans deserve it,” Crowley muttered. The little smiles Mr. Ashford and Aziraphale had exchanged flashed through his mind, nettling. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Original sin.”

“What rubbish.” Aziraphale lifted the pear to his lips, eyes sliding shut in anticipation. 

“Should you be eating that?” Crowley asked, his tone waspish. 

Aziraphale stilled. A heartbeat passed before his eyes flew open, bright with indignation. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Crowley hesitated, suddenly wrong-footed; the very air had changed, vibrating with a plucked string of tense anger. An iridescent bubble unfurled over them, rendering the humans outside wavery, smeared watercolor gestures. Nobody outside the bubble would see, hear, or even notice them. Crowley turned back to Aziraphale and saw expressions flashing across his face, almost too swift to catalog: anger, hurt, stoicism, anger again. 

“I only…” He trailed off, floundering. 

“Only what?” Aziraphale stepped closer, eyes narrowed to green-gray slits. Crowley could not recall the last time he’d seen the angel so angry, brimming with the sort of self-righteous fury that had leveled cities in days long past. “Go on, then. Out with it.”

“What are you on about?” Crowley retorted. He had the sense of being backed into a corner. “You’re completely overreacting.”

 _“This,”_ Aziraphale said, shoving the prosciutto-wrapped pear in his face with an accusatory flourish. “Crowley, I… I know you have exacting standards, but you can’t expect me to…” He swallowed, and the faintest wobble in his voice struck Crowley like a blow to the heart. “T-to abide by them.”

“What?” Crowley asked. “Angel, I don’t—”

“I know I was taken in by…” Aziraphale flicked a gaze up toward Heaven. “And I’m trying to—to be more mindful of all the ways they… manipulated me.” He raised his chin, rallying. “I like the way I am. You may not approve of it, but—”

“Wait,” Crowley interrupted, dazed by the force of the realization striking him like a thunderclap. “You think I disapprove of…” He waved a hand, encapsulating Aziraphale – his softness, his heft, the delight he took in food. “…you?”

Confusion passed over Aziraphale’s features, rinsing them clean of anger. “Well… yes, of course I do.”

“That’s mad,” Crowley blurted. “Complete crap.”

“You—you chastised me for eating,” Aziraphale pointed out, waving the pear again.

Crowley could feel a migraine coming on. Gritting his teeth, he forced out the words, _“Yes,_ I did. Because that tosser gave you the food.”

“You called me _pillowy._ After Armageddon.”

“Well, yeah. Because you looked cozy,” Crowley said. He couldn’t decide if he was exasperated, confused, or on the verge of hysterical laughter. Probably at the crux of the three. 

“You hated my pantaloons,” Aziraphale said.

“Er,” Crowley fumbled, feeling heat creeping up his neck, “nuh. No. They were… fine.”

A beat of perplexed silence. Then, “You’re disgusted with it. My body.”

Exasperation won out. Crowley rolled his eyes Heavenward, damning every angel Up There for making Aziraphale feel worthless, lesser. Ashamed. 

“And here I thought you were meant to be smart,” he sniped. When Aziraphale furrowed his brow, clearly determined to miss the point, he groaned. “For pity’s sake, do I have to spell it out for you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Without preamble, he snapped his fingers and dropped them into the stifling closeness of the back room at the bookshop. Crowley distantly registered the door swinging shut, the _clack_ of a bolt falling into place. 

His capacity to notice anything other than Aziraphale shorted out the moment the angel reached out a tentative hand. Aziraphale saw the shock flitting across Crowley’s face, hesitated, clearly worried he was crossing some unseen line. His hand began to shrink back, but Crowley was too quick and too desperate to let this opportunity pass him by. He seized Aziraphale’s hand in both of his, pressed it with a sudden, fevered boldness to his chest. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, eyes wide. 

“Too fast?” Crowley asked.

“No.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped to his hand, palm pressed so close he could surely feel every rabbit-quick beat of Crowley’s useless heart. “Not at all. In fact, I think this may be long overdue.”

“Angel.”

“My dear one,” Aziraphale said, stepping in closer, bringing up his other hand to cup Crowley’s jaw. “I’ve been such an old silly, haven’t I.”

“Nngh,” Crowley said, attempting a shrug. Failing. “S’alright. Seems pretty on-brand for us, to be honest.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, leaned in, and kissed him. 

For an instant, Crowley was frozen with shock. And then he couldn’t react quickly enough, and he was kissing Aziraphale desperately, and the angel’s laughter was in his mouth, a divine, carefree taste. Crowley released Aziraphale’s hand to grip his shoulders, the nape of his neck. Downy-soft curls tickled his fingers as Aziraphale sighed, lips parting, and Crowley pressed impossibly closer, desperate to taste all he could. Aziraphale’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him – and then pushing him away with trembling insistence. Crowley would suffer the worst torments of Hell before he admitted to the whine that escaped him, but the heated look in Aziraphale’s eyes banished his fears before they could take root. 

“I’ve wanted—for so long, Crowley, I’ve—” He was flushed, shoulders rising and falling with panting breaths, clearly clinging to his last shred of composure by the ends of his fingernails. It was an intoxicating sight. “Can we? Please, I need—”

“Yeah,” Crowley interjected, and it was as if every yearning moment of six-thousand years was crashing down upon him, an avalanche he had no hope of escaping. “Yes. _Yes.”_


	6. + Worshipping

_After_

In all the years of admiring Aziraphale, Crowley had never truly believed he would get to _hold him._ To feel the suppleness of his body moving in his hands, the power of muscles swathed in softness shifting beneath his fingers. He’d wanted it, certainly. Fantasized about it countless times, in all sorts of scenarios: lewd, shameless, and – most mortifying of all – loving. But it had been just that: a fantasy. 

The reality of Aziraphale in his arms was almost too lovely to bear. Aziraphale crowding his senses. Filling his vision, his old-books-and-freshly-brewed-tea scent stealing into every breath Crowley took. His soft, careful fingers threading through Crowley’s hair, pulling him in for kiss after kiss. There was a rough edge in that grip, a barely-restrained power that shivered through Crowley’s body and threatened to take him out at the knees. Aziraphale was as desperate as he was, and doing everything in his power to hold that desperation in check.

Crowley’s hands slithered up to Aziraphale’s wrists and gave a meaningful squeeze. “You can,” he gasped against the angel’s lips. “You can—can go harder, I don’t—I want—”

Words deserted him, but Aziraphale understood. His grip grew stronger, adding the barest sting as he dragged Crowley into another kiss. Their teeth clacked – a bright, sharp bloom of pain – and the sudden jolt of it startled a moan from Crowley. Aziraphale angled his head and deepened the kiss as if chasing that noise, determined to steal it for himself. 

Crowley startled as the backs of his knees met the sofa. He stilled, overwhelmed by what they had done – what they were about to do. 

Crowley pulled back just far enough to speak, feeling his own breath fan against the angel’s lips. “We could go back to mine. I’ve got a… a bed.”

Aziraphale’s look of thwarted confusion melted into a soft smile. “My darling,” he said, “you’re so good, and kind, _yes, you are,_ don’t make that face at me. I love that you want to… to treat me right.” He looked down, blushing impossibly brighter. “But I intend to have you now, you see. I’ve waited ever so long. Romancing can wait.” He hesitated, bit his lip. “If you’re amenable, that is.”

“Amen…” The word drifted off in Crowley’s amazement, became a blasphemy all its own. “Come _here,_ you utter—”

He pulled Aziraphale to him, and there was no laughter now. Turning, he pressed Aziraphale down onto the sofa, straddling his knees. His hands skated over Aziraphale’s waist, palms molding to the bit of pudge beneath his vest and shirt. The sofa was slightly too narrow, cramped – and with a thought, Crowley persuaded it to be a little roomier. More accommodating.

Aziraphale huffed out an exasperated breath, cheeks still flushed. “If you mess about my things, Crowley…”

Crowley craned forward to silence him with another kiss. As Aziraphale huffed a chuckle against his lips, Crowley cast about for what to do, how to proceed. Every filthy thing he had ever wanted to do to Aziraphale jostled for dominance in his mind, making it impossible to choose just one. He could kiss Aziraphale senseless, teasing him with gentle flicks and deep thrusts of his tongue until the angel begged for more. He could rut against him fully-clothed until they both came in their trousers, dirty and shameful and utterly _divine_. He could strip Aziraphale down to the skin, open him up with gentle fingers before folding the angel’s knees over his shoulders and fucking him until he wailed. He could ask Aziraphale to do that to _him._

Crowley’s mouth went dry. His hands stilled. Beneath him, Aziraphale made a noise of displeasure and pulled back. “Crowley? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Crowley hastened to say. Aziraphale gave him a deadpan look and he sighed. “I don’t know what—how… It’s a lot, and…”

Aziraphale paled. “Too fast?”

“No!” Crowley exclaimed. “No, only… What do you want? What can I do for you? I…” He thought he would have to force out the words, but they came far too easily, buoyed by many lifetimes of practice. “I want to make you feel good.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley as if he was not only a crafter of sun and stars, but every wonder of the universe incarnate. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he said. “Oh, my dear one.”

He reached up, curled delicate fingers around Crowley’s nape, and pulled him back in for another kiss. Crowley was just getting into it when he shifted and startled at the insistent jut of Aziraphale’s erection prodding his thigh. He hadn’t thought it possible for his mouth to get any dryer, but now he felt as if he had been wandering an endless desert for eons, parched beyond imagining. 

“Fuck,” he rasped, unable to tear his eyes away. “Can I?”

Aziraphale laughed, a touch breathless. “Please.”

Crowley reached down and cupped a hand over his cock. Aziraphale jumped, exhaling a shaking breath. The hand on Crowley’s nape tightened, a pleasant sting at the roots of his hair. _“Oh,_ that’s… Crowley…”

“Tell me what you want, angel,” Crowley said. This was easy; this came naturally to him. Giving to Aziraphale, lavishing gifts and miracles and indulgences upon him. This was what he craved. 

“Your mouth,” Aziraphale said, moaning softly as Crowley pressed the heel of his hand to his erection. “I’ve thought about it so much. You have the loveliest mouth.”

Biting back a grin, Crowley rose on his knees and shuffled back to fiddle with Aziraphale’s trousers. It would be easy to simply banish the fabric into nonexistence, but Aziraphale would fuss and fret until Crowley brought them back, and _then_ he would probably find a thread out of place and blame Crowley. He got so attached to material things.

 _Well,_ Crowley mused, pulling the zip, peeling down Aziraphale’s trousers and pants, watching as pale flesh was revealed inch by inch – _Well, this isn’t so bad._

And there was _so much_ to see, a landscape of gentle hills and valleys, crags of elbows and knees and a sky full of gasping breaths. Crowley wanted to explore it all, memorize every single atom of Aziraphale’s body. He would wear its imprint into his palms, hollow out parts of himself so he could only be whole when he held Aziraphale. 

A careful knee nudged the side of his head, followed by Aziraphale’s huffed reprimand. “Are you on holiday down there? It’s just, you said you wanted me to feel good, and yet…”

Crowley turned to bite playfully at Aziraphale’s knee. Then, inspired, he moved further up, over the roll of pant leg to press his lips to a bare patch of thigh. 

Aziraphale jumped as if Crowley had bitten him, his whinging dissolving into a sharp gasp. Crowley began to pull away, fearful he had misstepped, but Aziraphale braced himself up on an elbow and reached out to curl his fingers through Crowley’s hair, tugging in an unmistakable demand. _Sensitive thighs and a penchant for hair-pulling._ Crowley filed away that information for later use, all-too happy to devote his attention to the here and now. He set to his task with playful fervor, kissing and nipping the pale flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh until the angel groaned loudly and strained to move his legs.

“Off, off,” he demanded. “I need to get these dratted trousers off.”

Crowley sat back on his heels with a smirk and helped Aziraphale tug off trousers, pants, shoes, and socks. His sense of humor dwindled as Aziraphale’s pale feet came into view, strangely delicate – had he ever seen them unshod before? Yes, he had, in Ancient Egypt. As Aziraphale set about unbuttoning his vest and shirt, Crowley folded his trousers and set them aside, mindful that they wouldn’t be creased. He turned back to find Aziraphale smiling at him, naked and blushing with his hair delightfully mussed. His heart did a nimble flip in his chest. 

“Come here,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley went to him. The curve of his jaw was plush against Crowley’s lips, his chest pillowy against Crowley’s ribs, but there was nothing soft in the ridge of his cock in Crowley’s hand. He whimpered, arching like a reed in the wind, and Crowley hid a smile against his neck as he stroked him. Aziraphale’s cock was thick and hot to the touch, twitching as he tightened his grip. Crowley’s own prick throbbed in sympathy, tenting his trousers, but he ignored that. It was a secondary thrum to the roaring cacophony of Aziraphale’s need.

Aziraphale shivered as Crowley’s teeth grazed his throat. “Please, Crowley—your mouth, you said you would—”

“I did,” Crowley murmured, breath fanning against the reddened skin. The mark was high on his neck, unmistakable; he liked the idea of Aziraphale going about his bookshop, brazenly displaying the evidence of Crowley’s touch to unwary customers. Crowley slithered lower, trailing openmouthed kisses down Aziraphale’s chest, his belly, the crease of his thigh. He gripped the angel’s hips and, when his pleading reached a desperate pitch, bent his head.

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath as Crowley licked a broad stripe from the root to the tip of his cock. His hands grappled at the sofa cushions. “Crowley, _oh…”_

Curling one hand around the base, Crowley brought his lips to the tip of Aziraphale’s cock. The scent of him here was heady, intoxicating, and Crowley pulled back the foreskin to smear his lips across the weeping slit. Aziraphale moaned, hips twitching minutely, and Crowley relaxed his jaw to encourage him. 

“More,” Aziraphale groaned. “Please, more.”

Crowley obliged with a hum of pleasure, sucking down Aziraphale’s cock until his lips met the curl of his knuckles. As Aziraphale arched his hips, Crowley trailed his free hand underneath, giving into a long-held urge to squeeze Aziraphale’s arse. The angel gave a startled moan. 

Crowley pulled off long enough to ask, “Yeah?”

_“Yes.”_

Crowley took the head of Aziraphale’s cock between his lips as he cupped his balls, fingers reaching behind until he felt the hot, tight furl of muscle. He waited, bobbing his head, until Aziraphale pried one hand free of the cushions and waved it frantically.

“Your fingers,” he demanded. “Now, I need them now.”

Half the fun of this was pushing Aziraphale toward the edge of restraint, Crowley decided, smiling around the angel’s prick. He pressed one finger inside, uncannily slick, and swallowed a moan as Aziraphale clenched around him. Hollowing his cheeks, he took his cock deeper as he searched, finger curling, and—

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “oh, that’s—” He broke off with a cry as Crowley brushed his prostate again and again, pushing the angel relentlessly past speech. Aziraphale threw his head back, exposing the pale bow of his throat as his broken cries filled the air. Crowley withdrew his finger and added another. As he massaged that place inside Aziraphale, he swallowed down as much of his cock as he could take, bobbing his head until tears pricked at his eyes. 

“Crowley, I,” Aziraphale began, only to cut himself short with a sob. “I’m, I’m going to…”

Crowley squeezed the base of his cock and laved his tongue along his slit, ignoring the growing ache in his jaw, the persistent, neglected want pulsing low in his hips. Aziraphale lifted his hips spasmodically and came with a cry, spending himself in Crowley’s mouth. Crowley took it all greedily, loathe to let any go to waste. 

Aziraphale fell back down with a faint _squeak_ of abused upholstery, chest heaving. He was beautiful like this, skin glowing a rosy hue and sweat gleaming on his brow. His usually-tidy white curls were in total disarray, curing damply over his forehead. Crowley moved away, easing his fingers free with care, and brushed the stray hair out of his eyes.

Aziraphale made a feeble motion, playacting batting his hand away. “I know where those fingers have been, dear boy.”

“I _do_ have two hands,” Crowley reminded him.

Aziraphale looked down at him with hazy amusement. Then his eyes widened and he struggled onto his elbows. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so—come here.”

Crowley shimmied closer, and if the taste of Aziraphale still lingering on his tongue hadn’t reminded him of what he had just done – just witnessed – he might have been embarrassed at how wantonly he rolled his hips when Aziraphale cupped his clothed erection in his hand. But the taste was still there, the memories still cut-glass sharp, and there was no space inside him for shame. Aziraphale unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down quickly with his pants, freeing his cock, and it took a paltry few strokes before Crowley came undone, moaning the angel’s name on a broken cry. He collapsed beside Aziraphale, utterly spent.

“That was,” he gasped.

Aziraphale hummed. “Perfunctory.”

“Oi.” Crowley snaked a hand across his chest to pinch a nipple. A nominal rebuke; he really just wanted to fondle Aziraphale’s chest again. “Don’t be smart. The reviews are in, I’ve just given you a fantastic blowjob.”

Aziraphale rolled onto his side and smiled against Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh, I’ve no complaints. In fact, I’m excited for the next go. I have _so much_ I would like to do with you.”

Crowley swallowed around the sudden sensation of a golf ball in his throat. “Hnn. Nyeah, sounds fun.”

A beat of silence fell as Aziraphale cuddled closer, apparently intent on burrowing into Crowley’s side. Crowley didn’t mind one whit. He turned to face Aziraphale and slung an arm over him, pulling them flush together. Luxuriating in his soft body, the solidity of him.

Aziraphale sobered slightly. “I need you to know,” he said, rushing the words, “that I—I-I enjoyed this, truly, but I didn’t initiate it because you were so—so kind about my body. How it looks. I did it because I’m terribly fond of you.”

“I know,” Crowley murmured. He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s throat, flicking his tongue out to taste the flowering bruise he’d left. Sex and salt-sweat and old books and freshly-brewed tea and, beneath it all, the faintest hint of fresh apples. “I love you too, angel.”


End file.
